It's Been a Long Time
by Liete
Summary: -UK/US, AU- 'A love letter from her father to another man. Short though it was, it was more tender than anything she'd ever seen or heard from her father her entire life.'
1. Chapter 1

**It's Been a Long Time  
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**By: Liete**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia or any of the characters portrayed.**

**A/N: If you read this on my Tumblr already, this is a slightly expanded version.  
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><p>Her father was an interesting man. An author and a loner, on the surface he was the very picture of a distinguished English gentleman, but underneath he was not above getting drunk and shouting obscenities at anyone who would listen to him. He knitted and kept a beautiful rose garden, but he also liked pirates and had a collection of authentic memorabilia. He was grumpy and difficult to deal with most of the time, and even when he wasn't, he always seemed a little distant.<p>

For years she thought that those were all reasons why her parents divorced, but her mother always avoided the subject of her father, and her father would merely reply that her mother was "a fine woman" and then change the subject. She lived with her mother and only occasionally visited her father, and there were no traces of their former marriage in either house, especially not after her mother remarried.

So many years later, after her father's death, she was quite interested in going through his personal items and learning a bit more about a man she had barely known.

In a box stored away in a hall closet was a photo album full of the wedding pictures she'd always been curious about, and looking at them, she began to understand why her parents never wanted to talk about them. They both looked far too formal and stiff for a wedding—a joyous occasion. Even in pictures as they danced together and shared a kiss, they did not appear in love at all. In the end, she had to close the album and put it away, because it hurt to know that even when they were together, her parents did not love each other.

Most of the other things were various trinkets her father had collected over the years—newspaper clippings, honors he'd received for his military service, scrapped outlines and drafts for books he'd never published, needlework and figures he'd made himself, among other things. No matter what she unearthed, her father seemed no more remarkable than the distant man she'd always thought of him as.

Hidden underneath a pile of clothing in his bedroom closet was a box that was full of what must have been hundreds of letters all addressed to one person. Alfred Jones. As she sifted through the letters, she realized that they were all sealed—never sent. Biting her lip, she removed one of the letters and opened it, noting the date as when her father was a young man.

_My darling Alfred,_

_I hope this letter finds you well. I know it has not been long since our last meeting, but when face to face with you I feel so lightheaded that I can barely think straight much less put what I want to tell you into words, so I am writing you this letter instead._

_In my mind's eye, I can imagine a world where it is all right to love you as I do, and that we would not be accused of mental illness. That we would not have to hide behind closed doors under the guard of night, and my parents would accept you as my choice and not arrange for my marriage to someone else._

_My mind is much kinder than reality, of course._

_It is cruel of life to curse me with such a love when I cannot enjoy it as fully as I would like, but I do love you, more than I can put into words._

_I look forward to our next meeting._

_All my love,_

_Arthur_

She lowered the letter in shock, her mind desperately trying to parse what she had just read. A love letter from her father to another man. Short though it was, it was more tender than anything she'd ever seen or heard from her father her entire life. In the box were more letters, all addressed to Alfred, and despite a nagging feeling of guilt at digging into such a private part of her father's life, she picked up another of the letters and opened it.

_Dearest Alfred,_

_It is done. My engagement is set and there is no escaping it. She is a fine, beautiful woman who will make a fine, beautiful wife, but I do not love her. I cannot love her._

_I want to run away somewhere. Somewhere with you where no one knows us and all that is between us will be accepted. Yes, I know. No such place exists. I will face my fate like a man, though I imagine it will feel more like being led to the gallows than standing before an altar to marry the woman I will vow to spend my life with._

_Never has our distance seemed so cruel._

_I want to write more, tell you more, but my hands are shaking so much that it is difficult to even hold my pen. _

_Instead I will try to comfort myself with a thought that you will continue to wait for me, and maybe time will change the circumstances that keep us apart._

_Yours always,_

_Arthur_

One by one, she read letter after letter, getting a glimpse at a man she had truly never known, and with each letter she was more and more overwhelmed by how deeply and desperately her father had been in love with Alfred, though circumstances and distance kept him from that love.

But he had never sent any of the letters, merely wrote them, pouring out his feelings on a regular basis.

The final letter she opened was from a fairly new envelope, and opening the letter revealed that it was written only months before her father's death.

_My love,_

_How long has it been since I last saw your face? Far, far too long, but even if I had the means to see you, I've lacked the strength for many years. I am getting old, and it has finally caught up to me. I know that I do not have much longer to live._

_I lived a good life, though I may not have always felt that it was true as I was living it. I met many people and saw many things, and I can't regret any of them._

_I do have many regrets, however. I was a terrible husband and a terrible father, but my greatest regret will always be that even during all of the years that I knew you, I never once told you that I love you. Instead, like a coward, I kept my feelings to myself, writing these letters that I never sent, and hoped that somehow you would understand without words that even just the sound of your voice could reduce me to incoherency._

_I love you, Alfred F. Jones. From the bottom of my heart. I only wish that I could have found the courage to actually say that to your face._

_I do not know what will follow after I have gone, but I hope that no matter where I go, you will eventually follow, and maybe we'll find that place that never existed in our life where we can be together._

_Until we meet again, my love,_

_Arthur Kirkland_

In the end, she had to weep—weep for her father and his doomed love and weep that she had never known him for the person he really was—deep and capable of love she couldn't quite comprehend. Her father who had always seemed so distant was merely looking off towards a place where he truly wanted to be.

After a time she finally got her emotions under control, and she packed the letters away neatly in the box, sealing it to be taken with her. She had funeral arrangements and other business to take care of, but the first free moment she had, she planned to go overseas. Some were many decades late, and maybe the one meant to receive them no longer lived at that address, but she'd see to it that the letters reached their intended destination.


	2. Chapter 2

**It's Been a Long Time**

**A/N: Well, the title is fitting, since it's been a long time since I wrote the original. Nearly three years! But since I found this mostly finished in my fanfic folder, it was only a matter of adding a few paragraphs.  
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><p>The address was right, but she couldn't bring herself to knock on the door. She could just as easily place the box in front of the door and leave. She'd still be accomplishing her goal without having to deal with any confrontation or awkwardness. With how nervous she felt, just leaving the box sounded like a much better idea than her original plan.<p>

She had news to deliver, however, and she felt that it had to be done in person. Moreover, she wanted to meet the man her father had loved nearly all of his life. Alfred Jones.

She was far too old to be feeling so nervous, but her hand trembled as she held it up to knock on the door. She lifted her chin and took a deep breath, rapping on the door firmly. She was raised to be a respectable lady, and so she had to act like one. The sound of the door unlocking made her heart race in panic and all pretenses of acting ladylike were abandoned, and for a moment she thought about dropping the box and running for her life.

The moment the door opened and a man appeared, however, she was unable to move. He was like a movie star—handsome and well built, with age having not diminished his good looks in the slightest. Her knees felt weak.

"A-Alfred Jones?"

"That's right, what can I do for you?" he replied with a smile.

She was definitely far too old to be swooning, and yet Alfred's smile was so brilliant that she felt lightheaded.

"You were involved with my father, Arthur Kirkland?" It wasn't the way she meant to ask it, but even just looking at Alfred was making her feel ridiculous in more ways than one, and rational thought had been completely abandoned.

His smile faded and he blinked in confusion, then the smile returned—small at first, then steadily growing with amusement until he burst into laughter.

"Involved?" He nearly doubled over with laughter, and once again she froze.

A horrifying realization swept over her that maybe there had been no relationship at all and it had been a complete fabrication born from her father's fascination with Alfred—a story, like the many others he'd written in his lifetime. That was why the letters had never been sent, and now here she was making a complete fool of herself thanks to her father's fantastic imagination.

"That's a good one. Involved." He pulled off his glasses to wipe at the tears in his eyes, then he cleared his throat, fixing another pleasant smile on his face. "So you must be Rosemary, right? Artie told me about you...you did a good job of hiding those massive eyebrows!"

Her entire life she had been self-conscious about the eyebrows she had inherited from her father, but she was so meticulous about plucking and grooming them that no one ever suspected that she naturally maintained caterpillars on her forehead. The fact that a man she didn't even know just casually mentioned them was unbelievable, and her face burned. "I beg your pardon?!"

"So how is Artie doing, anyway? I haven't seen him in a while!"

Any indignation she felt was instantly forgotten, and she looked down at the box in her arms. "My father died last month. He'd been sick for a while."

"Arthur's dead?"

She looked up again, but she wasn't sure what to make of Alfred's expression. It wasn't the dismay of a heartbroken lover that she'd been expecting, but it was hardly the detachment of a stranger. If she had to put a word to it, she would say that Alfred looked lost. At that moment she wished more than ever that she had just left the box and run. She shifted her weight and lifted the box for Alfred to see.

"I...I found this box in my father's house. I think he might have wanted it delivered to you, so I brought it here."

Alfred didn't say a word, just stared blankly at the box. If it was possible to sink into the ground, she would have liked to do so. Instead she just hoped that Alfred would take the box so she could leave and feel awful for the rest of her life about meddling in affairs that weren't really any of her business.

"Why don't you come inside?" Alfred asked, and he stepped aside to motion for her to step inside the house. She hesitated, but finally took a tentative step forward into the house.

Alfred's house was considerably messier than her father's, but it was also full of the various knickknacks and memorabilia from a long life. It was clear that Alfred had done a great deal of traveling, which was lending credence to her theory that the intense love had been one-sided on her father's part. He might have just met Alfred as he was passing through England and, being a man of imagination put into stories, a fantasy was born.

"Do you want…tea? That's what Arthur always wanted."

Alfred's voice startled her out of her thoughts, and she took a seat on the sofa Alfred motioned her towards. She set the box on the table in front of her and shook her head. "No. I'm fine, but thank you."

Alfred nodded and sat down in a large chair. "Well, since you came all this way, you mind sticking around for a little bit?"

"Of…of course!"

With another nod, Alfred reached for the box and grabbed a handful of the letters. She cleared her throat and motioned with her hand.

"I put them in order."

He raised an eyebrow. "So you read them?"

She blushed, which made him chuckle, but then he was absorbed in reading the letters. She could only watch as he went through each one, his blank expression never changing. She knew well of the intensity of the feelings expressed in those letters, so it baffled her that he wasn't reacting to them at all. She would even take disgust over the lack of any reaction. As he finished the last one, though, she noticed as he lowered the letter and tilted his head back that there were tears in his eyes. He removed his glasses and wiped at his eyes.

"Goddamnit, Arthur."

"I…I'm sorry that you weren't invited to his funeral. The preparations were done in such a hurry that I—"

He held up a hand to stop her and then clasped his hands. He bowed his head, obscuring his face. "You wouldn't have known. I doubt he ever told you anything."

She swallowed hard. "No, he never did."

He let out a sarcastic, but choked laugh. He lifted his head again to look her directly in the eye. "Well, I guess those letters don't leave anything to the imagination. We were lovers once, for a time." She must have looked horrified because he held up his hands. "That was before he married your mother. He was always faithful to her. I…actually assumed he was always faithful to her even after they divorced. We were nothing more than friends after that. Barely that, since I rarely ever saw him."

When he didn't say anymore, she started to wring her hands. Maybe it really was a mistake. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have brought them."

"No, I'm glad you did." He let out another sarcastic chuckle and shook his head. "I…_always_ loved him. I just thought he stopped loving me, so I never said anything."

She opened her mouth to speak, but he quickly stood. "I'm sorry, Rosemary. I want to talk to you more and get to know you, but I think…I need to think about this for a while."

She quickly stood as well and nodded vigorously. "I'll be in town for a few more days, may I call you?"

"Yes, yes…" He seemed distracted, but scribbled a number on a scrap of paper. She took it and gave him a small smile.

As they walked back to the front door, she turned to hold out her hand. "It was lovely to meet you, Mr. Jones."

He smiled, but even though it still made her stomach do a little flip with how handsome it was, it was now undeniably sad. "Alfred. Call me Alfred."

"Alfred." Her smile widened just a tad, and then she was out the door. She opted to walk back to her hotel instead of calling for another cab, since she also had a lot of thinking to do.

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><p>Once Rosemary was out of sight down the street, Alfred walked with somewhat stilted steps back to his chair, which he sank into. He shuffled through the letters again, reading the words he'd been so desperate to hear.<p>

Their relationship had been one of hushed voices, stolen kisses, and midnight trysts. Then, the night before he had to leave to meet and wed his future wife, Arthur had made desperate love to him over and over until they both couldn't move.

In the morning, Arthur had been gone. That had been the end.

_I love you, Alfred F. Jones. From the bottom of my heart. I only wish that I could have found the courage to actually say that to your face._

Only if he had had the courage to do so himself.

He let the letter drift to the ground, and he stared at it long after his eyes began to burn.


End file.
